c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(6-26)
At Evergreen Estates, stories of failed relationships, lost careers, and shattered dreams were so common that their abundance had created a pervasive mood of disinterest among residents of the park. Few cared to hear such tales of woe expressed in public. And fewer still embraced flowing tears and groans of sorrow in private sessions around a seasonal campfire. To be suffering in silence, so far removed from the flow of a more metropolitan population along Lake Erie, was considered to be unremarkable. So familiar and ubiquitous, that it literally turned people numb.
For that reason, men like T. C. Lincoln simply kept to themselves, in a reclusive fog of inebriation.
Any memory of having been part of a mainstream, social order had long ago been surrendered. The shaggy hermit could barely recall standing in front of his bathroom mirror with an electric razor. Or wearing starched, white shirts, and crisp, patterned neckties. When speaking, his hillbilly brogue hid a measure of sophistication that had been plunged deep into a morass of darkness. He made no effort to be pleasant, or approachable. Instead of the fine soaps and colognes of his youth, he now reeked of stale beer and bottom-shelf whiskey. Along with budget cigars that were sold in cardboard boxes with the imprint of makers without any intention of providing a quality product.
His life no longer mattered to anyone, least of all, to himself.
Yet in his wake, artifacts of a different age had been strewn around the landscape. Bits and pieces of himself with the surreal expression of a Dada art pioneer. Each of these remnants carried some meaning that had not been apparent at the time. But when viewed with hindsight, left impressions that somehow affected others to alter their own paths for the better.
None of these connections were revisited, after the fact. Expect for a chance revelation that occurred on the California coast, many miles away from the rural loam of Geauga County, Ohio. In Santa Barbara, Amanda Breen was successful, pretty, and sociable to a fault. She was the daughter of a 1960s relic, who had been wild and creative, and the product of a university professor and his literary spouse. Her brother lived in various cities along the western edge of the North American continent. A vagabond in the spirit of their shared bloodline. Ever curious and full of wanderlust.
Upon becoming a late mother, at the age of 40, she gained an interest in DNA research. And with this new cause in mind, began to hunt through her own genetic markers, for clues about their notable brood. She discovered Quaker relatives in Pennsylvania, German immigrants who had arrived from Europe during the 1800s, and many historical tangents to pursue. But while pondering the strong eyes and distinctive build of her young son, she realized something that was unsettling and inescapable.
Her own profile did not match that of her brother, or the dashing pater that had always claimed to be her sire. So, some factor in the research had gone amiss, she initially believed. Yet when repeated several times over, the results did not differ. Her true progenitor was some anonymous male from the past. An individual that even her mother could not identify, for certain.
Finally, Amanda cornered the hippie queen at her home in Tehachapi. With the result that quickly, both women were wailing like barnyard cats in the glowing moonlight of a summer evening.
“Mom, the clinic says that Dad isn’t my real father! And neither are any of your old boyfriends who participated in their tests. Do you understand how that makes me feel? I’m an orphan now! I need to know where I came from, once and for all!”
Jessica Decosta grimaced slightly, and shook her lengthy, white curls in protest at being confronted so directly. Her eyes lowered in a gesture of sincere regret.
“Honey, I think there must have been some kind of mistake. You know those mix-ups happen all the time! Of course your dad is who and what you’ve always believed! Why would he lie to you? Why would I lie to you? I can’t be any more honest than that!”
The blonde entrepreneur was not satisfied by this claim of ignorance.
“Dammit, the genealogy doesn’t match! The report I got says that my father must have been partly Caucasian Euro, but also of indigenous ancestry. Likely Cherokee and Shawnee! There are databases all over the country now, artificial intelligence has made it easier to sift through digitized documents and registries...”
Jessica huffed at this measure of trust in scientific analysis, without more corroboration.
“Dear, you need to calm down and think this through. It doesn’t matter who contributed to your DNA profile, really. You are a grown adult now! Not a little kid! And definitely not an orphan. You can see by our similarities that I am your real mother!”
Amanda threw back her head defiantly, and then pinched her generous nostrils.
“But, where did this nose come from? It looks a lot like something you’d see on a native chieftain! Not the kind of perky, little schnozzle for a chick like you!”
Her mater shuddered and scowled.
“STOP TALKING LIKE THAT! YOU’RE MAKING ME FEEL ILL!”
The slender female stood with hands on her hips, and an expression of discontent twisting her mouth.
“Mom, who did you ever know with a beak like this? There must have been somebody along the way. Here in Cali, or maybe when you still lived in New York!”
Jessica clutched at her stomach, while engaging in a moment of silent nostalgia. Then, her eyes closed and a new confession ebbed from the ether.
“There was a boy in the Finger Lakes Region, in Ithaca... I think he was 19 at the time. He dressed in a Biker style, as if he wanted to be a Rock star. I was older by a decade, already a single parent, a veteran of the art scene, a designer, a waitress, and a groupie with bands around the area. Not so practical and settled down as I am now! He had a charming disposition, as a poet and a writer, but still acted oddly naïve for someone living on the street. We shared two different apartments, so I got him wine and cigarettes when there was money in my handbag. You could say he was good company on long, hot nights in rooms with no furniture, and a mattress on the floor!”
Amanda smirked while swinging her bottom in a circle.
“Good company? That’s all he was, not a partner or a legitimate boyfriend?”
Her mother flushed with embarrassment. It was not a memory that she cherished over time.
“I dumped him to move back here. Both of your grandparents wanted us to get married. But that wasn’t in the cards for me. I couldn’t hack his impulsiveness. He didn’t seem to care about anything but his antique typewriter, and a small collection of vinyl records. And, one pawn-shop, Japanese guitar that was missing strings and other parts. I honestly thought that he needed to grow up! He was too much of a child for someone like me! But we did have fun for a while, at least...”
Her daughter chilled at this vivid description. Then, folded her arms and hardened her approach.
“So, what ever happened to that guy? You left him alone on the streets, with nothing but his flannel shirt and a leather jacket?”
Jessica yowled with a feline inflection in her voice.
“I HOPE HE TOUGHENED UP A LITTLE BIT! I LIKED HIS SWEET TALK BUT NOT ALL THE BULLSHIT THAT CAME ALONG WITH THOSE CUDDLES AND KISSES! HELL, I MANAGED TO SURVIVE THE HARD TIMES! IF THIS CHICA COULD DO IT, THEN SO COULD HE!”
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